As I mentioned in the first article of this two-part series, Pat and I arrived at Camp Sister Spirit only to find that the women there told Pat he wasn’t welcome. He quietly turned around, hopped back into his Chevy Spectrum, and drove the five hours all the way back to Tallahassee, planning to pick me up in three days.
I was on my own. It felt a little like when I was dropped off at college: a stranger in a strange land, having to quickly adjust to new surroundings and a different culture.
This wasn’t just a retreat in the woods, though. It was an experiment in collective care—only with guns and radical lesbians involved (and everything these terms conjure in the mind of the uninitiated).
Not long after settling in, I’m riding in a golf cart for a patrol run. My driver, a skinny, no-nonsense butch lesbian in a faded baseball cap and cargo shorts, gives me the lay of the land. “Wanda says don’t respond,” she says about the occasional threats or trespassers. “But I’d shoot ’em if I could.” Her words are blunt and quietly fierce. The camp represents a hard-won freedom. She grew up in this town, as did most of the women who tend the land.
Later, she takes me to the local country store for food and supplies. We’re met with sideways glances and low whistles from the rugged men lingering out front—lots of facial hair, more baseball caps, many beer bellies. One of them looks a lot like a younger version of Frank Tengle. For some reason, I’m only mildly afraid. Maybe it’s the lasting impact of “I’d shoot ‘em.”
The men’s eyes follow us longer than necessary, but that’s about it. In this place, their silence feels like a small victory. Or, at least I take it as one.
Back at camp, I pull weeds and water plants in the communal garden. I paint weathered wooden shower stalls in meditative and purposeful brushstrokes. This mindfulness exercise turns out to be much-needed before nightfall.
That’s when security kicks in. Visitors are expected to participate in the night watch, contributing a few hours to make sure the guys from the local store or elsewhere don’t show up unannounced without our welcoming committee. So, we each take shifts. Despite having grown up in Duarte or maybe because of it, I’d rarely been out in the middle of the night. At the camp, in the quiet, I listen for I don’t know what, not sure what I’d do if actual trouble comes. Thankfully, it does not.
We sleep in a large, open area inside an old, wooden building—mattresses on the floor, shared space, high ceilings. It feels exposed but comforting. We’re all there for the same reason: to belong, protect, and build.
I learn that lesbians from all over the country trickle in, one weekend at a time, each with their own story and desire to help. Some come with tools, others with meal ideas, some with only open hearts. They’re there to create something outside the noise and hostility of the world—a place where they can exhale.
When Pat picks me up, we head back to Florida on the sunny I-10; the weather’s the same as the trip out. Some things haven’t changed, some things have in a big way—not only do I have new memories and stories to tell, but also an altered way of looking at the world. “Inclusion” isn’t a mainstream topic yet, or not in the way it is now. But I’ve stepped foot in the South and seen what it’s like to live with a different kind of fear, as well as a new definition of family and other takes on living. Isn’t that part of what we’re all looking for, in one way or another? A shared sense of community?